Young Duke by Christopher Storm - Chapter 01

Genre: Vintage Sleaze / Coming of Age

What goes on in the minds—and bodies of today's adolescents? According to his father, Duke was a fine boy. “Even though he's tangled up with all those women...."

According to his mother, he was a troublemaker. “He rides that motorcycle and causes such outrageous talk...."

The under-age girl thought he was great. “So what if they caught us. His old man fixed it with the judge....”

The restless woman at the resort was hooked, too. “He's such fun. That boy knows what a bed is for!”

And, Penny, his steady, dug the whole scene. “So what if he makes it with those other girls? It just fixes him to send me further—higher—" As for the Duke himself, he was obsessed by the lure of lovely bodies—and by reckless rebellion. The wilder the party, the deeper the trouble he got himself into, the more he liked it—and the harder he laughed!

A PROBING NOVEL ABOUT THE PROBLEM IN YOUR OWN HOUSE—OR RIGHT NEXT DOOR!

CHAPTER 01

Listen to the audio version of Chapter 01

Hector (Duke) Waldron, Jr., Let his firm pleasant baritone mutter over the melody while he arched his Adam's apple to adjust his bow tie. Gonna live, live, live before I die... He broke off the tune and stepped back. He winked, unsmiling, at the cool character in the full-length mirror on his closet door. The gray gabardine Ike jacket and tapered black slacks fit his tall, well-knit body like a glove.

Very, very cool. Heck ran appreciative knuckles over the stinging razor-burn on his lean tanned jaw. The vestigial beard rasped faintly. He frowned and patted the immaculate black wave of his hair. Pleat that wig good, Duke. He took out his pocket comb and adjusted the faintest jag in his part.

He put away the comb and did a quarter turn on his glossy black dress mocs, standing with an easy, negligent grace, his lean behind hip-shot. He studied the person. He grinned.

...blast, blast, blast before I die...

He took the staircase down two steps at a time, banged onto the bottom landing and loped into the kitchen. "Hey, Ellen." He did a Tiger Jones head-hunch, thumbed his nose and feinted at the gray-haired housekeeper's stringy bicep as she reached into the oven. "Hey, baby, looky."

Ellen straightened up, holding a cake tin in a potholder.

She gave him a fleeting wide-eyed glance, said, "Hmp, ain't you the cat's pee-jays," and sidestepped him to reach the plastic-topped table. She lipped a spatula into a bowl of yellow frosting and began to ice the bottom layer.

"Mr. W. called up an hour ago. His late night at the office but he got off early. Ought to be home by supper—"

"Yeah?" Heck picked up the eggbeater and ran his tongue around the rotary blade for a residue of frosting. "Lemon?"

"Lemon and banana. Didn't mean to get you all excited or nothing."

"Baby, I'm winging. Winging, I tell you. Look, hey, Cloud Nine." He did a fast twist-shudder and grabbed her. "Let us dance, ere these precious moments—" He ducked and jumped back, laughing, as she swung the spatula at his head.

"Lemon and banana. You slay me, princess."

"That's a thought." A grin twitched a corner of Ellen's prim mouth. "Go on, get out of here."

He banged the screen door behind him as she said sharply, "Hey, you."

"Oh, oh, and yo."

Ellen glared at him through the screen. He gave her the grin, rocking on his heels, thumbs booked in his pockets.

"You be back in time for supper, mister, hear? Here your pa's cutting out early and your ma's at the beauty parlor—"

"Fat lot of good a wig wave'll do Ma."

Ellen made a choked sound and pushed the door open.

He danced nimbly off the steps and faced her from the sidewalk, thumbing his nose and jabbing at the air. "Up and at 'em, Tige."

Arms akimbo, Ellen sighed resignedly. "Look, buster. It's your eighteenth birthday, right? They want to spend a nice evening with you—"

"I'm like bleeding. Save a hunk of cake for me, sweetie,"

Heck shouted, grinning over his shoulder as he dog trotted up the walk and out the gate.

She yelled, "Hey," followed the yell with a low expletive, let the screen door slam.

Heck's steel taps beat brisk staccato along the concrete. He grinned happily at old Mrs. Griffith rocking on her front porch and waved to her cracked, "Evening, boy." Tangles of ancient honeysuckle brush—Old She Griffith called it her wisteria—grew in riotous fragrance all around the moldy manse. Heck's nose twitched.

God, what a square neighborhood.

Still, the sweet touch of bud-bursting honeysuckle in the warm air of a May evening feathered the restless, erectile youth of him and now, clicking down the frost-buckled old sidewalk with molten bars of sunlight and gnarled-oak shadows flowing over him, he found a sadness in it too.

A subconscious pout sobered his lips—he tossed a coin as he walked, juggled it, flipped it over the back of his hand. All right, they wanted to spend the evening with you, what did they expect, handsprings? He knew the pattern—the family circle—the old man bitching about Reuther and labor and the G. 0. P. was the Hallelujah Choir or something. Pa would make with the square middle-class jokes, mildly off-color. Ma would be mildly reproving and the old man would give with his hearty, "Ha—ha—now, mother, " beaming with all this crazy togetherness. And then, the mad gay delight of it would subside. "All right, Mr. W.," Ma would say, "let's get serious," and the old man would slip into the churchwarden bit usually reserved for Sunday morning but when the old lady said cricket, Hector Waldron, Sr., Fourth Ward alderman, Elks' vice-president, etcetera, jumped.

I think ifs time we had a little talk, son—so goddamn pat you knew it had all led up to this about those wine bottles Ellen found in your closet. Also about the hubcaps, some friends of yours took off Mayor Wittock's car Tuesday evening.

I'm not saying you were there but a boy named Duke was. Hector Waldron is a proud name„use it. Another thing, stay away from the Downtowner. You know that's a whiskey bar. And about that Magruder girl—yes I know you like her but she isn't the right sort, son. I can pull a string or two this time, but you've got to watch your step. The Magruder girl? Ahem. Well, a lady in your mother's bridge club saw you going into the Downtowner together. Yes, I know it's none of her business, but I think you'll admit that when the talk gets that sharp, things have gotten a bit out of hand...

Heck snapped the coin out of the air and pocketed it.

The old man would be talking, but it was Ma, the She in the shadows, who monitored the whole bit.

Things got out of hand with you a long time ago, Pop...

It had been that way on the last cozy holiday gathering.

Good Friday—and they had crucified him all evening. Heck squirmed his shoulders inside the tight jacket, raging against the memory. He had awakened the next morning with a splitting headache in a motel five miles out of town, in a sweaty bed shared by a liver-haired broad. His hands fisted in his pockets. All right, he thought—all right!

He shook himself. Hell man, tonight you blast—get with it.

Heck swung right at a corner, took a broad avenue at a trotting bounce-step, and turned into a filling station and garage at the next intersection.

"Hey, Charlie."

Charlie Beers, chubby and bald, was timing the points on a 'fifty-four Mercury. He looked up with a gold-toothed grin, wiping his hands on soiled coveralls.

"Hey, Duke. Your cycle's tuned up. I put in new rings, tightened the brakes."

"Crazy. Slap it on the cuff, dad."

Heck walked to the back of the garage where the Austrian Puch 175 stood, its maroon finish gleaming dully in the shadows. He had made a deal for the machine last month with Eggy Norton, who was moving to California. He was sending Eggy the money in odd dribbles. He paused to run a loving hand over one finned drum, then wheeled the cycle up front and settled against the seat. The starter kicked off nicely and he savored the roar of ten idling horsepower, strictly from Lombardo, the sweetest din this side of heaven.

"Cosmo, Charlie. Great."

"Yeah." Charlie frowned, wiping a torque wrench on a greasy rag. "Look, kid. That cuff's getting sort of frayed."

"So ain't my credit good?"

Charlie lowered the wrench. "Look, the boss here makes the rules. You take that song to him. Another thing, he wants the rental for keeping your putt-putt out of the rain."

Heck was growing nettled. "I'm short this week." He considered the solitary fin in his billfold and thought, the hell with that noise about who runs Charlie's job...

"Okay, but let's pony up by next Saturday. It's my can he chews and I got a wife and kids to think of."

Heck curled his lip gently. "Why don't you tell him to blow it?"

"I'll pass that word along," Charlie said sulkily, "from The Duke."

Heck made an obscene sound with his teeth and tongue, then roared off the shallow ramp and spun into the light traffic.

Charlie Beers was a born crap-taker, be thought bitterly, working his tail off from seven to six while the man who owned the joint dozed on his in the office. Why didn't Charlie take a chance once in his belly-down life and tell the man what to do with his crummy job? Head mechanic, hell Charlie would be nothing but a glorified grease monkey for some tight-fisted bastard till he jumped the twig.

Heck throttled down impatiently until he was out of the residential district. Then he gunned hard and, roaring past a sign announcing the town line, turned to thumb his nose at it. His laugh was tom away on the rush of air and all was behind him but the open highway and the long night.

The sun had nearly cut the scene, so he switched on the headlamp as he careened back and forth across the lanes.

He swerved back at the last moment as a car banking around a curve bleated its horn and whipped by. He laughed again.

This was frantic stuff—but the state fuzz had this stretch well patrolled to break up the chicken drags, so he had better slack off. Last year be and Scoot Barker used to drag through here in Scoot's battered rod and take potshots with a twenty-two at roadside signs.

Old Scoot, he thought almost affectionately. They were on the outs now, ever since Allie Magruder had broken a date with Scoot to take in a wino party with Heck over in the sprawling urban center of which this town was a commuters' outpost. Old Scoot had asked Allie to the Oddfellows' Ball and had shot the works for a rented tux and a six-buck corsage.

The next day Scoot had been warm enough to jump him right in the high school shower room after gym class.

Heck had thrown him and banged Scoot's head against a steam pipe a few times. Since then Scoot had been all grins whenever they had met but Heck knew be was waiting for the right time. "Ain't no broad worth a brawl, good buddy,"

Scoot would always say, unctuous as hell and Heck was a little sorry he did not mean the words. He and Scoot had shared some royal bashes. Scoot had first dubbed him Duke.

Stretches of pine woods, billboards and an occasional filling station flashed monotonously by for the next three miles, and then the red neon sign of the town's teeners' favorite hangout blinked into sight. He veered into the parking apron spinning his wheels and took pleased note of the dozen or so cars lined up. As on every Friday night, the gang was off to an early start.

The joint was a long, rectangular building built of cinder blocks painted pale green. Heck shut off the cycle, wheeled it around to the rear and left it by the back door. This was pure precaution—he had gone to such pains only since Deputy Hotchkiss of the county sheriff's office had made one of his unexpected raids one night and rounded up a bunch of kids who were underage. It was the first time Hector Waldron, Jr., had been booked and the last-thanks to weight thrown by Hector Waldron, Sr.

Heck came back to the front of the place and snapped his fingers as he reached for the door. Hell, he was eighteen now. He could walk in and out of a suds joint without looking over his shoulder for the bulls. He knew a pang of regret, for he had looked forward to continuing to give pot-bellied Bartholomew Hotchkiss a run now and then.

Ah, well—love will find a way, dear Holch...

He threaded through the tight-packed crowd inside—yelling back to "Jambo, Duke," and "Howsit, Heckababy—" and wedged himself against the bar, shedding an elbow—happy character on either side with an easy shrug of his wide shoulders. He drummed his fingers to Chubby Checker's exhortations to limbo and waited for the bartender to finish serving a bunch at the end. A new guy, he noticed. He wondered where old Ralph was.

The guy came over. "Yours?" He was all beef, unsmiling, with a red face and blond crew and a stare like icicles.

Stabbing. A real sport, Heck thought.

He said, "Draft, dark beer. Where's Ralph?''

"Got his license revoked for selling beer to punks," the guy said and the icicles probed Heck's soul. "You got a card?"

Heck took out his new draft registration certificate and beef-butt shook his head. "You need a drinking ID."

"Yeah?"

"State law, buddy. You got to have a permit sealed in plastic to show you're eighteen."

The bastards, Heck thought vaguely and felt his neck grow warm. "What the hell for? Nobody ever bothered around here."

"Guy that owns the place has been warned. One more violation and they'll shut him down. You can hang—but no suds without an ID. Want a coke?"

"Gee. That'd be great. Would you?"

Laughing boy gave him the icy orb, turned away. What the hell, Heck wondered darkly, was this joint coming to, anyway?

"Hey, Heck mans."

He turned, grinning his pleasure. "Hey, Allie."

She pushed to the counter. They were jostled close and she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes, Allie was a robust five-two, and curved like a milkmaid, every inch.

She stood with her feet apart and thumbs hooked in the waistband of her faded tan capris. They hugged the wickedly nubile lines of her young thighs and her bulky black leather jacket was thrown open to a white sweater which yielded to the swelling boldness of her breasts. Her face was softly round with a generous mouth tilted to a wholesome grin. An old motorcycle cap was crazily askew on her tumbled auburn curls. Heck had to laugh, as usual, at the picture she made.

"Old Allie, you look hot to trot."

"You know it, Heck mans. Want to sip along with Allie?''

"Negative, muscle maid, Smiley, there, wants to see a plastic card. Old Smiley is a real swinger."

"Got one." She waved it under his nose. "Say, I'm a week older than you, so—"

"Check, I became legit today. But alas, no goddamn card."

"Uh." A jostle from behind lurched her against him and she came up on tiptoe. She whispered against his cheek, "Back room—I'll bring the suds."

"Cosmo."

He paid for his coke, elbowed through to the archway and ducked between the beaded curtains. The back room was dimly lighted by an overhead lamp enclosed in a blue globe. The walls were lined with booths in which necking couples made anonymous, murmuring shapes. A few were out on the floor, paired shadows fitted snugly to one another, barely swaying, making no effort to keep time with the spirited rock number blaring in the other room.

Heck took a booth. In a minute Allie, bearer of a brown quart bottle, slipped in beside him.

"Bring an opener?"

"Here. I'll use the glass."

He popped the cap. Foam hissed up and drenched his hand. "Wild. You shook it up, so you must be shook up."

"Your fault." She pressed her lips to his shoulder. "Pour me."

He clicked the bottle against her glass, "Bumpers," tilted it, chuga-lugged a third and brought it down on the table.

"Whoosh."

"Whose bumpers?"

"Foolish girl." He dropped an arm around her shoulders and she snuggled, laughing quietly. "What a kook."

"Mm." Her lips grazed his chin. "Kookie nice?"

"So—so."

They nuzzled noses in a ritual sparring. Allie's lips brushed his murmurously. "Better?"

"Ah, the power of positive drinking." They exchanged brief light kisses. Allie worked her mouth up his cheek, licked his earlobe gently.

"Hi."

"Hi, old Allie-cat. How you get out here?"

She nibbled dreamily. "Flying, natch. Like now."

"Come on, hey."

"Oh, I hitched on with Scoot and the troops."

"Schmucks. Where are they?"

"Outside in Scoot's heap, killing off a whiskey soldier who lives under the seat. Lived." The murmuring lips were nuzzling over his cheek and neck and he thought, the hell with Scoot. He sought the moist ripeness of her lips with his mouth, felt them part a little to his kisses—brief at first, then lingering—till mouths opened fully and drew tacitly apart to let tongues graze together in quick small flickings, then joined again, the kiss long and hot and sweet.

Heck pulled back. "Hey, knock it, hot-lips, or old Fatprat Hotchkiss will be picking us up on radar."

"Allie last of red-hot mamas."

"Allie walking napalm bomb."

"Incendiary—"

"—but nice."

"Ah, so. Now we dance, to keep young Duke respectable. Chop-chop?"

"Chop-chop."

He slipped the bulky jacket off her shoulders as she wriggled from the booth and she shed her cap with a toss of her head. She tugged her sweater smooth. "Ruff!" Heck said and they moved easily together, swaying to a slow blues, hands at their sides and bodies brushing, then molding into a slow warm adhesion of thighs and hips, Allie's breasts shaping into the concavity beneath his breastbone, her face pressed against his neck. Her hands rose lightly to his shoulders, his to her hips. He slid his palms around to the small of her back, feeling up-down through the exceedingly thin sweater the gentle ridge along the hollow of her spine. His hands dropped to the taut roundness below. Allie's lips parted to a smothered gasp and her tongue caressed his throat.

"Watch that educated—"

"Fond fool."

Heck chuckled. Then the beaded curtains rattled behind him and someone tapped him on the shoulder.

"Hey, there, good buddy," said Scoot Barker.